


Blue With Frost

by asimbelmyne



Category: Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Character Study, F/M, Falling In Love, First Meetings, Fluff and Angst, Missing Scene
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-08-30
Updated: 2017-08-30
Packaged: 2018-12-21 14:22:58
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 776
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11946111
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/asimbelmyne/pseuds/asimbelmyne
Summary: Winter had sharpened her senses, painting her perception of life in hues untainted by human hands. While spring continued to weaken the wits of lesser men, the North would remember.





	Blue With Frost

**Author's Note:**

> A/N: Lyanna as the Knight of the Laughing Tree.

_"Deep roots are not reached by the frost."_

_― J.R.R. Tolkien_

* * *

Lyanna's helm shone brightly from beneath her fingers like a shooting star. She pulled it free in one fell swoop, swallowing a mouthful of fresh air. The taste of sunshine was strong on her tongue, lingering long after she had taken a breath, thawing the ice that she had been born into. Harrenhal was aflame with colour, a kaleidoscope of oversaturated greens that stretched across the ground like wildfire. Flowers freckled the forest floor, brushing against the base of her boots in their pursuit of the sun, searching for the sky. Drunk on the scents of spring, Lyanna felt the absence of winter like a missing limb.

It was too much to bare. Winter had never been as kind, hardening her father's people until their swords shone brighter than their hearths. Spring was as foreign to her as the helm in her hand, too temporary to truly belong on her head. Lyanna had been born into a world of white, a world where colour could be found in people's voices, filling her father's halls with a warmth more sincere than sunlight. Winter had sharpened her senses, painting her perception of life in hues untainted by human hands. While spring continued to weaken the wits of lesser men, the North would remember.

Lyanna let her helm fall to the forest floor. When she looked up from the ground, Rhaegar Targaryen was standing across from her.

He had been persistent in his pursuit of her from the very beginning, persevering in the face of adversity, defying her expectations in more ways than one. Her skills had been of no use to her in the wake of Rhaegar's resilience. It had taken too much of her time to evade him for as long as she had, time better spent in her father's company. Punctuality had never been her strong suit. Ned and Brandon would be furious with her, scouring every inch of Harrenhal's grassy fields for a figure dressed in velvet instead of steel, demanding an explanation for her lack of subtlety in exchange for a few choice words. Rhaegar had marred the anonymity that she had promised them, something that she intended on keeping quiet. Her involvement in the tourney could not be known.

"Is there honor in defeat?" she asked, losing herself in his eyes.

He looked at her as though he could see into her very center, savouring the taste of her name as though it were a prayer. It was unnerving, slipping across her skin like sunlight, exposing everything that she had wanted to hide. His eyes brightened when he found what he was looking for, folding in at the edges like one of her father's maps.

"That would depend on who you've lost to."

"Then am I lucky?"

He grew quiet, taking her in. Amusement flickered across his features like a flame, saturating his face in warmth. She wasn't sure what he had seen to cause such a change in his appearance, but it felt familiar, as intimate to her as a kiss.

"If you tell me why you did it, I won't say a word," he said, his voice as smooth as silk.

Lyanna frowned, threading her fingers through a stray piece of grass, counting the seconds that passed between them as though they were nothing more than stars. Her borrowed helm shone at the base of her feet like a roaring flame, cradled in fingers made of flower stems, rivaling her own two hands. She held them out for him to see, brandishing her scars in the same way that she had been taught to hold a sword. Her skin had grown angry and red in the short time that they had spent together, blistered and bloody from her excursion at the tourney. She would never wield a sewing needle in the absence of a blade, nor kneel before a man lacking honor. Lyanna lived in a world of colourless affirmations, a world as heartless as the ice that flowed through her veins. The taste of sunlight had become too sweet for her, a sour stain that threatened to worsen with each passing second. Everything seemed too bright, too green, and too false for her liking.

"Winter is coming," she said, reaching out to touch a strand of Rhaegar's snowy hair.

"So soon?"

A wild rose peeked out from beneath her helm, blue with frost. Lyanna plucked it from the earth.

"Pretty things don't last," she answered, folding the rose into his hand.

Their fingers touched for a brief moment, but it was enough. She knew that he had understood.


End file.
